


The Con Man and the Suit

by megazorzz



Series: Damaged Goods [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Awesome Phil Coulson, Barney Barton - Freeform, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson - Freeform, Con Artists, Conman!Clint, Curator!Phil, Depression, Hurt, Hustler, Implied abuse, M/M, Non-SHIELD AU, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past implied character death, phlint - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megazorzz/pseuds/megazorzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man in the corner is just another suit--someone who would use Clint up and throw him away and then find himself $300 dollars and a laptop short in the morning. That's the way it always went for Clint. It's just a way to get by.</p><p>But he's not like any suit Clint has conned before. Phil Coulson is a gentleman.</p><p> <br/>* * * Please Read * * *</p><p>Nothing non-consensual happens in the timeline of the story itself, so I did not put any archive warnings. BUT it is heavily implied that Clint has been abused and taken advantage of in the past. Nothing explicit is said, but it is referenced on more than one occasion in his inner stream of thoughts. Phil is a gentleman and asks almost-literally every time he wants to do something with Clint.</p><p>If you think the story warrants warnings, then please message me and I'll change it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Con Man and the Suit

 

Clint had about forty dollars in his pocket when he saw them across the bar. It was Friday. Through the smoke and general chatter, he saw glittering light glinting off of one fancy pair of cufflinks.

These were not your ordinary cufflinks. Clint had an eye for these things—conmen usually do.

They were white-gold—not plated white gold, solid—and he saw tiny gems in the light, even through the intermingling bodies that separated them. His brother had always said he had good eyes. Clint made sure he used them. He also told him that they didn’t hustle, they conned. “Huge difference,” Barney had insisted on more than one occasion. Clint wanted to believe him—being able to call yourself a “Con Man” always sounded more dignified, if only a sliver more so than “Hustler.”

He leaned over the bar and ordered another drink and reached in his pocket. What he thought was one twenty was actually a ten—all the more reason for him to make his mark tonight. He was sure he’d make it till tomorrow. Clint was always able to tell when someone was watching him and this man was certainly watching.

Clint took the olive out of his martini and popped it into his mouth innocently as he turned to face the room. He made a note not to catch the man’s eye yet. No use in approaching the man too quickly. “Let your mark come to you whenever you can,” Barney had always said.

It was crowded here, but not unpleasantly so. It was a typical Saturday night he assumed from the way the bartenders aptly handled their posts. Good to know.

The smoke from the fog machines was thick with sweat and youth, which were both more reasons why the man at the corner table was so puzzling. Yes, there was a variety of men in their 20s and 30s, but this man was different. He was in his 40s maybe, seemed calm and devoid of the erratic, nervous flutter that the other patrons exhibited.

Clint’s eyes darted to the man every now and then as he scanned the room. He had on a gray flannel suit that set him apart from the denim shirts and skinny jeans most of the other men wore. The suit’s shoulders fit well over the man’s and the back of the lapel didn’t bunch up at the back of his neck. It fit well and it showed. Clint sipped his martini.

Clint’s head bobbed slightly to the music, which was catered to crowd slightly younger than he. The man's eyes burned a hole in him. These men prey on outsiders, Clint thought.

“I call ‘em ‘Suits,’” Barney had said. “They’re just horny old fuckers trying to hide their filthy habits from their wives and kids. When they don’t pass out drunk, they can’t get it up. Makes the job easier for us.” Clint inwardly scoffed—what a lie that was. Though he never could blame his brother though—he’d been at it for longer. Times change and pills were available for the shy guy, so to speak, He downed the rest of his drink.

After managing to exchange a couple cigarettes for another drink, he pretended to cruise, his hips swaying to the constant thrum of the crowd and rowdy clamor of music.

His hips worked their magic on the Suit. After Clint wove his way through the crowd to the bar, he was handed a drink from a passing bartender. “From the well-to-do man in the corner.”

Clint feigned flirtatious surprise and tipped the glass in the man’s direction as he made his way over. He was sure to respond to a couple advances on the way over—he wanted the man to work for it and to know that Clint had options. Lust clouds the eyes.

“Hey,” Clint said.

“Hello,” the man smoothly replied. Clint slid into the booth. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“You come here often?” Clint asked, though he already knew the answer—heard it countless times. It meant that the mark was comfortable in his space, more vulnerable to the smooth, convincing chain of untruths that Clint effortlessly wove together. It was easy for him by now. “I’m Barney,” Clint said.

The man paused and sipped his wine. “Phil.”

“Nice to meet you,” “Barney” said, lowering his tone.

Phil returned his gaze. He loosened his tie. Clint avoided the glittering of his cufflinks, but oh, were they so much better up close. “So, what brings you to a place like this, Barney?”

Clint paused to drink and think. Phase one was always the most fun to employ. Why was he in Bar X this weekend? Would he be “newly single” and just looking for a plug to fill the hole in his heart? Or maybe he would be the casual “couch-surfer,” free and loose, un-chaperoned by his hosts?

Phil was harder to read than most Suits. His lips were pressed into an almost-hard line, save for the flirty quirks at its corners. He eyed Clint intently, with an inscrutable ember smoldering behind them. Clint minutely squirmed beneath his gaze.

Clint didn’t know if Phil wanted a one-night stand or someone to curl up against and clutch as he cried himself to sleep. The latter happened a bit more frequently than Clint ever thought it would, though the former was always the more common and unpleasant route.

Clint’s mood soured behind his smile. Phil sipped his wine and then reclined in his seat.

Or was Phil one of those assholes who never got what was coming to them? Those men would sidle on over, lush in their expensive suits and with their Rolexes and gold pinky-rings, smutty looks of expectation smeared on their greasy mugs. They would stalk and approach Clint, willing to pay or say anything to take everything from him.

Well, at least that’s how it used to feel. Now their advances were routine, words clichéd and ultimately forgotten in his glazed over mind. At least Clint had managed to stay afloat on a chain of these assholes. He didn’t let the bitterness escape in his coquettish grin.

“I don’t know, the music and lights, I guess,” “Barney” started. “I just decided to pop in, that’s all.” He’d play the “young blood” type tonight. Usually works on grabby Suits. They loved the boy next door. “Looks like a fun crowd.”

“It usually is,” Phil sighed. A server came with a frothy drink, set it down before Phil and pointed to another hopeful in the corner of the room. Clint pitied him, expecting Phil to shrug him off. But no, Phil smiled warmly and raised his glass.

“A friend of yours?” Clint asked.

“You can say that,” Phil answered, confirming Clint’s fear. Fucking men like that always got what they wanted: they bled guys dry and abandoned them in the dark recesses of their fucking skulls. “We still get together for coffee every now and then,” Phil continued. “Smart kid.”

“Oh,” Clint blurted out with genuine surprise. He ordered another martini to calm his nerves.

He quickly dismissed the flowering hope in his gut—Phil still had plenty of time left to make Clint bitter. After all, they would be spending the night together. Clint downed his martini and Phil followed shortly after with his wine.

The suited man stood, silhouetted in the neon lights of the club, like an imposing inevitability. He stretched out his arm and offered him a hand. “May I have this dance, Barney?”

Clint let down his already quivering guard for an iota of a moment, glancing down at the cufflinks. “O-okay.” No one had ever asked before.

His hand wrapped in Phil’s firm and certain grasp, they weaved through the crowd to the dance floor, their ears’ attention fully consumed by the bass and beat as glancing streams and clouds of light lit the hanging smoke ablaze. Clint gulped, not knowing how to proceed.

Clint’s hands slid down to Phil’s hips as they grinded against one another, eschewing any cares they had about wandering eyes and the crowd. Phil’s eyes were fixed on Clint’s, as the music grew loud and furious over the course of their bout. There was no struggle for Clint to maintain his heated gaze. The other revelers seemed to fade into the distance as Phil’s eyes seemed to ask Clint all on their own, “Can I kiss you?” Clint nodded softly as Phil’s lips greeted his and Clint’s tongue responded only a sliver beneath greedy and lustful.

The rocking ebb and flow of their dance was punctuated by a deep dip, Clint cradled in the man’s solid arms. Clint almost smiled. The rhythm and pulse faded into a different tune as Phil again brought Clint up and his face close.

“Do you want to move this somewhere else?” He spoke into Clint’s ear, sending a network of goose bumps veering down his side.

Clint blushed, half with embarrassment at his own boyish giddiness and half at Phil’s intense gaze and the smile. “Yeah.”

The check was waiting for them as they returned to the Suit’s booth. They sat as Phil examined it. Clint feigned reaching for his wallet, but Phil staid his hand with a smiling glance.

He knew it. Phil was just another taker. He’d be expecting something in return for the $20 or so that he spent on Clint. And he had almost fallen for it. His hands made clenched fists beneath the table as he stifled a sneer. Phil’s smile softened. “Is something wrong? If so, we don’t have to—“

“No, no, everything’s fine. I just need to go to the restroom, that’s all.”

“Alright.” Phil paused and seemed to consider Clint’s words as his brow furrowed and lightened. “Did you check a coat or bag? I can get those for you while you wait in line, I don’t mind.”

Clint hesitated. Last time he let a mark do that, Clint ended up one cellphone short in the early morning hours. The fucker barfed into his bag, preferring to soil the meager contents of his bag over his patent leather shoes. He grinned. The john was one laptop and $400 lighter by the time Clint fled into the morning mists, laughing and swearing.

But, as established as the patterns were in Clint’s harsh considerations of the world, he felt like he could trust this Suit—at least enough to get his backpack and leather jacket for him. If the dance was any indicator, the Suit was nowhere near vomiting. Clint reached into his pocket for his ticket stub. “Sure…I’ll meet you outside?”

“Of course.”

Clint went to the restroom. In the mirror he considered his face and neck. He wondered if there would be any bruises the next morning like last time.

He reminded himself that men like Phil are all take, take, take. He’s met nice guys before and it never ended well. “Why should it now?” Clint sighed, resignation sinking deep in his stomach. He puffed out his chest in the mirror, slapped his face a couple times, feeling only a scrap of it through the haze of his drinks. His stomach murmured a catty reply to his robust façade.

He’d fence enough of Phil’s shit to eat and drink himself sick for the next week or so. If only Clint could steal his tears back.

He at last exited out into the crisp night air and spotted Phil, jacket and bag in hand. Phil carefully set the ratty bag on the sidewalk and held the jacket open for Clint, who cautiously slid his arms in. “Thanks for getting my things.” Again, Clint’s stomach made itself known.

“Are you hungry?” Phil asked, smiling and crossing his arms.

“I was gonna get dinner with my friends, but they never called so…”

“I know a place near here, if you’re interested,” Phil started, “It’s just a few blocks away from here.”

“Sure, sounds great,” “Barney” lied. He forced a smile. Phil glanced at it then back up to Clint’s eyes.

The Suit held out a leading hand.

\+ + + 

Phil led Clint to a hole-in-the-wall kind of place. Trendy too.

“It’s just basic Thai fare. But they do it well.”

“Smells good,” Clint said, inwardly scolding himself for being charmed by the joint.

The server seated the two near the back of the crowded restaurant. Phil pulled out a chair and Clint sat. People had tried to flatter him too many times to count over the years. The men would steal a touch or linger too long when helping him out of this or that cab. They both knew what they wanted—Clint’s plan just always diverged from the Suits’. But Phil was in possession of an inexplicable grace in his gestures and compliments, almost as if a heart beat inside his chest.

“What do you do for a living?” the Con Man asked after their wine came.

“Oh come on,” Phil scoffed and grinned. “You’re really going to start our first date like that?”

“It’s our ‘first date,’ huh?” Clint flirted, stroking the man’s hand across the small table, mere inches away from his shimmering prizes. “So tell me, Phil, how should we start it?”

“Well,” Phil leaned in close, “I want to know more about this beautiful man I happened to run into.”

“So you want to know…?”

“What you do for a living…” Phil relinquished and the two shared a chuckle. “I guess clichés are clichés for a reason, huh?”

 Damn charm. “Well, if clichés are clichés. For a living...I’m sort of aimless right now. Post-college blues, that sort of thing. It’s been a couple years already and it feels like I haven’t done much,” “Barney” lied. He had never even thought of going and thought that he never would. And he had done a lot—just nothing that he really wanted to.

“What did you study?”

“This and that. I had to satisfy all of these core requirements and whatnot,” Clint dodged.

“Alright. How do you pay the bills now, then?”

“Barney” sighed, “I’m just a barista at some place uptown. Nothing exciting.”

Phil’s face softened and drank his wine. “You have a job though. That’s something, isn’t it?”

The Con Man looked away, real inklings of regret and hopelessness escaping his mask. “It’s something, alright.”

“We don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want to.”

“Thanks,” Clint murmured.

There was a brief silence as the two sipped their drinks. The server came and took their orders and was off.

“Maybe I can get coffee with you sometime.”

“Are you asking me out on a second date on our first? Stalker,” Clint teased. He was sure to lean in and touch the man’s shoulder, feigning coquetry. Seven out of ten times the mark would run with it, and Clint would eat the next day. Not many of them took him to dinner first. And none of their eyes gleamed with sincerity.

“There’s something about you I can’t put my finger on,” Phil purred.

“Oh really? What do you think it is?”

“Well—and just roll with me on this one—you look like you have a lived life.”

“That’s putting it charitably,” Clint thought bitterly.

“You saw all those other ‘hot, young, things’ at the bar. I like some of them well enough—the bartenders always call me ‘Daddy Coulson’—and I’m friends with a few of them but…” Phil trailed off, gathering his thoughts.

“But what?”

“They all try to act like something they’re not,” the Suit started, “With their spiked boots and studded jackets. But you…you just feel…so genuine.”

“I’ll bite,” Clint chuckled, actually curious, “how am I ‘genuine?’”

“For one thing,” Phil nodded his head toward the bag at Clint’s feet, “you like traveling, obviously.”

“It’s just a ratty bag…”

“It’s not the bag itself, but what it represents.” Phil gestured, hands sweeping from left to right. “Other people at that club sew patches purposefully poorly to their denim jackets, wrap duct tape around the straps of their bags because they want to instill some essence of, say, a ‘Punk’ or ‘Bohemian’ lifestyle using a system of signs and signifiers. But your bag is the real deal, it’s seen it’s fair share of beatings and repair. And you’ve kept it all this time. Held onto it.” Phil paused and laughed, “Sorry, you must think I’m a real windbag, it’s just my job. It messes with my thinking sometimes.”

“What do you do for a living?” Clint snickered. “Now that we’ve organically reached the question...“

“I’ll answer it,” the Suit finished for him. He straightened his dark tie. “I like to think that I’m an art critic/curator—really I just do managerial duties. I work at ‘Walker & Otogi’ over on 13th street. There’s an internship that you should remind me about later. It’s for the fall and spring.”

“Ah. It all makes sense now. You prowl and drink at clubs so you can put it on the company card, huh?” Clint chided. “Fucking art-types,” Clint’s mind rattled, “Probably lured in a ton of vulnerable, naïve kids in that way.” 

“It has certain benefits,” Phil said darkly, rimming the edge of his glass with his index finger. “I have to keep a finger on the pulse of what young people like so I can sell it to people my age.” He sighed and looked away.

Phil motioned to the diligent server for a refill. “And besides, if all the men were as interesting as you seem to be, then the gallery would have more variety.”

“We haven’t known each other for that long,” Clint shot back jokingly, “How d’you know I’m not an airhead?”

“Just call it ‘intuition,’” Phil offered, tone even and calm and knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Clint let loose exhausted laughter, which spiraled upwards and died out in the restaurant’s din.

The steaming dishes arrived soon thereafter and they continued their banter, Phil laying the compliments thick and "Barney" appearing to take them in stride.

 

\+ + +

 

After Phil again got the check (“Remind me to pay you back one of these days, Phil,” “Barney” offered.) the duo decided to head back to Phil’s apartment for a nightcap. Clint fidgeted and squirmed the whole way over. “Is something wrong?” Phil asked.

“Just have to go again is all,” Clint said, trying to ignore the concern laced in Phil’s tone and painted on his face.

“We’re pulling up to my place now.”

Phil swiped his card and they were out of the cab.

Phil Coulson greeted the doorman and firmly pressed the “up” button at the art-deco elevator, a sign of a high society still extant and breathing hot down Clint’s neck. It lurked in every drink and every time he scrubbed himself clean.

“Classy,” Clint commented. The doors glided open and whisked the two up to the 23rd floor. Clint noticed that this building had two apartments to a floor instead of one, imposing one—one where the elevator opens up into the apartment itself.

“Neighbors?” the Con Man asked.

“They’re out of town most of the time,” Phil said, the jingling of keys attending his door.

Clint hiked up his backpack and searched the corners of the corridor for cameras. Only one attended the hall—he could deal with that. He subtly shifted his face away from its lens.

The door swung open, revealing a simply decorated, yet lux interior. Angular furniture, neutral gray color palette, Clint had seen it before, but at least it was better than the nouveau-riche set, ones who preferred gaudy, gold caryatids and lavishly embroidered, crushed-velvet curtains. Btu at least such interiors afforded him a cheap laugh the next morning, as he and Barney met for coffee and to compare their hauls like some perverse trick-or-treaters.

“There’s a closet by the door if you want to put your things there,” Phil called from the kitchen. “And the bathroom’s in the back, second door on the left.”

Clint haphazardly dumped his jacket and bag on the floor. It would be faster to grab them and run later if he needed to; and there was a stolen KA-BAR in case shit got serious. He made his way to the back and closed the door quietly behind him.

He turned on the faucet and splashed his face. His vision blurred. His reflection swayed. His breath was even and smooth, but his mind raced.

The Suit was too courteous and too sweet; after a display like that, most pervs proved doubly cruel once their targets lay pinned beneath their money and sweat. He shook his head, puffed out his chest and flushed the toilet.

The man was seated on the black couch tie off and jacket deposited in his bedroom closet. His shirtsleeves were pushed back, but the cufflinks remained fastened.

He placed two crystal tumblers and a decanter on the table. “Just in case you want any,” Phil said.

“You’re quite the drinker aren’t you?” “Barney” teased.

“Only when I’m nervous,” Phil confided.

As the scotch poured into the tumbler, Clint crept closer across the expansive couch. “Makes two of us then,” Clint uttered, only half-fibbing.

Phil blushed in the low light as ‘Barney’s’ lips went in for the kill. “You don’t have to be anxious. Just a first date,” he managed as his mouth brushed against Phil’s bared neck and his fingers ran through the light cover of his chest hair. Phil groaned at his touch. He set his drink on the glass table, accepting Clint between his thighs.

Phil winced at the baring of teeth and Clint clutching his strong legs. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” the Suit whispered.

“If only you knew.”

Clint felt hands creeping down his sides. He shut his eyes tighter, wincing against the world and his life, until he heard Phil ask, “May I?”

The Con Man opened his eyes. His hands kneaded Phil’s chest and had undone three buttons. He shouldn’t have but he did. Clint nodded and his black t-shirt was soon folded on the table. Clint licked his away into Phil’s mouth, ravenous and hungry.

Phil leaned up into him, reciprocating; his fingers glided across Clint’s back. They stopped and lingered when he flinched. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just a bad memory.” He held Phil’s hand and guided it away from the scar.

“When did that happen?”

“Did what happen?” Clint tried to evade his scrutinizing gaze, but he already knew he’d end up spilling.

“I know what scars feel like, Barney,” Phil said, trailing his fingers along his straddler’s legs. “You can tell me.”

Clint took a deep breath. “Arizona,” he started. “I was cornered. Some—some guy was pursuing. He had a gun…” Clint paused. If it weren’t for the cashbox and computer in his bag, then the bullet would have ripped through the tender flesh of kidney and the lattice of veins. “I was visiting someone down there over break—back when I was at school. I had a textbook and my laptop in my backpack…”

It was only part truth—but uttering it expressed real tremors in his tone. Clint wiped his eyes (“At least it makes lying easier,” Barney had always said).  

“My god, Barney.” Phil sat up, placing his strong hands on the Con Man’s chest. “You’re lucky to be alive…” Phil trailed off.

“Don’t I know it,” Clint whispered. Barney wasn’t so fortunate.

Phil’s eyes darted away and back. He considered Clint’s face and chest, breathing deeply. “We ought to wait.”

Clint’s heart pitched and raced. “Wait for what?” He was too close for the Suit to back out now.

“I mean, I’m fine where this is going,” Phil said low, “But maybe it’s better. You're not feeling well and we only met a…” Phil looked at his watch. “How is it already four in the morning?” he groaned.

Clint buried his face at Phil’s neck, leaving a trail of spit and licks. “Come on…it’s still early. Use me. Please.” Phil considered him with wary eyes and Clint felt the surge of blood beneath him Phil gasped at his insistent groans.

“Do you need money for a cab? There’s always Sunday—”

“Can I sleep over?” Clint almost begged. “It’s really late…”

“Of course you can…I can take the couch, if you want.”

Clint wanted to bark and yell, to tell Phil to shut fuck up and stop his kindness-without-consequence. But, Clint’s gaze had attended Phil more and more over the course of the night. The concern, the furrowed brows and caresses were imbued with a rigid static that no liar could conjure. Clint knew what it was to lie. He was well acquainted with the network of hormones and the infinitesimally small shocks that ran long his synapses and tongue until they finally died out in the ears of a sweating Suit. The cufflinks and whatever fucking else this man had slid into the back of his mind—he could steal Phil if he could, but his road was one he traveled alone now.

“Can you show me the way?” Clint asked, beginning his retreat.

“Of course.” Phil stood and took Clint’s hand and led him to the back. The bedroom was sparsely decorated, but soothing. Phil crossed the plushy gray carpet and deposited his cufflinks in a black velvet box on the dresser. “There are more blankets in the closet if you get cold.”

“You know, we could always—“

Phil chuckled and silenced Clint with a finger on his lips. “No, no,” he yawned. “Let’s take it slow, okay?” Phil went to the closet and deposited his shirt. “Brunch tomorrow?”

“Huh?” Clint was caught off guard. “Yeah, yeah. Sure.”

With one last sweep of the tongue over his, Phil said his goodnights and went to the living room.

Clint cautiously eyed the velvet box as he settled into bed.

He and his brother never thought of it as stealing. It was always more of a transaction to them and what they traded the watches and rings could barely cover.

             

\+ + +

 

Clint woke with a start. The sun peaked through the curtains and crept over the carpet. He desperately searched for a clock. Noon already. He assumed his routine and shuffled to the living room. Phil was nowhere to be found, save for a note in neat script on the glass table. “Had to go to the office early. Just a stupid emergency. Will a late lunch do?” Scrawled beneath was a posh name and address. Clint folded it and put it in his pocket.

Guilt sat heavy in his throat as he again eyed the box. He heard it rattle as he placed the box in his backpack, unable to bear the sight of his thievery.

 

\+ + +

 

He gingerly held the box as he stood in front of the pawnshop. Normally he’d be reveling—nursing his wounds. But the lump in his throat grew bigger with every step. He slowly placed it back in his bag without looking where it fell. As he pulled out his wallet to see his meager stash, the note fluttered to the ground like some rare bird. He picked it up and eyed the address.

 

\+ + +

 

“Barney! Over here!” Phil waved him over. Clint approached, legs and lip trembling. Phil had on his glasses and a charcoal suit that hugged his shoulders and a striped shirt that hugged his chest that Clint's fingers only hours ago stroked heatedly. “How’d you sleep?” Phil smiled. “Won’t you sit?”

Clint had no answer except to pull out the black box. He placed it on the table as Phil’s lips parted and sighed. “I knew there was something about you.”

“Well…you were right.” Clint hiked up the bag and began to leave when Phil placed an identical box on the table and opened it to reveal the glistening gold. Clint’s breath stilled and died in his chest; Phil only smiled.

“I wanted to see what you would do,” he quietly offered. Phil then pulled the KA-BAR and placed it on the box.

Clint was speechless. He rummaged around in his bag, finding that Phil had indeed taken his means of defense. He could only obey when Phil motioned for him to sit. Phil ordered for the two of them. “Just orange juice to drink for now, thanks.”

The Suit, no, Phil laid his napkin on his lap and leaned in close. “How long has it been?”

“Been what?” Clint choked out, tears beckoning behind his eyes, voice wavering under Phil's concerned gaze.

“On the run? Homeless?” Phil murmured low.

“Forever…” Clint struggled. Then a smile crept across his brow, though it still had yet to reach his mouth. “How’d you know I wouldn’t rob you blind? Why’d you even give me a chance?”

“Just call it ‘intuition.’” The server brought them their juice. “I wasn’t taking a huge risk, in any case." Phil cocked an eyebrow. "My truly valuable things are in a safe under my bed.” Phil smiled wider. “I also used to be a cop, if that helps to explain things.”

“How do you know I’m not lying now?” Clint choked out, heart beating and yearning—simultaneously waiting for Phil’s hand and handcuffs.

Phil only tapped the box that Clint set down.

“So what?” Clint started indignantly. “We go out on more dates? Get married?” Clint reached into his battered bag and tossed a cheap cell on the table. “Here’s my disposable. Why don’t you put your number in it?” He crossed his arms and looked off into the corner, unable to meet Phil's eyes.

At that Phil picked up the silver plastic phone and punched in his number. “That oughtta do it,” he said.

Clint could only giggle uncomfortably and pinch his brow. “What are you doing?”

The server returned and Phil ordered a Bloody Mary. “I don’t know what I’m doing either, ‘Barney.’” Phil made air quotes. “Do you need an explanation for why I’m drawn to you? I can’t give you one—maybe I’m just some weirdo, or maybe your head’s too full of justifications for that scar on your back—God knows where else you have them...” Phil huffed and leaned back. “Maybe I’m just lonely and maybe you’re sick enough of your life to humor me.”

Maybe so, maybe not. When Clint wasn’t venting anger and bitterness, he spent the early morning hours on the bus or train explaining to himself why he would always be trash and why others would use him up and toss him away. Phil only gazed at him with those blue-gray eyes. His jiggling knee and foot told him to make a run for it, but the longer he held his expectant stare, and the louder his stomach growled and the more his mind swooned in the emotional fallout of this man’s touch and tongue, the less he’d be able to forgive himself for throwing himself in the gutter.

Phil crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow. Clint wiped his eyes and took off his jacket, dumping it on the floor next to the table. “Okay. Okay. Sure.”

Phil let loose a sigh of relief and blushed. “Really? Then let’s start over, shall we?”

“Lead the way,” Clint scratched the back of his head, sending away his hesitation’s last itch. “I’ve never been on a real date before.”

Phil reached across the table, taking Clint’s rough hand in his. “I’m Phil Coulson. Nice to finally meet you.” He kissed his hand. “And this isn’t a date. It’s an interview for an internship that’s recently opened up.”

“My name’s Clint. Clint Barton.” He grinned—confused but unafraid. “Sorry, I didn’t bring my resume.”

 


End file.
